Saturday, December 07, 2013
ust start, Maria heard. The temples that were the trees let in harmony as the sun caressed and stressed the importance of its rays with the heat of life. We awoke with the brightness nearly blinding and watched transfixed as the light changed moment by moment as the sun traveled across the sky and the blanket of horizon deepened and moved and opened itself to the dark of night and the slivering moon with its silvery light.
We learn to roll with the punches of life, and as we do we learn that the punches are the tides of change.
Maria knew that all change would come to her as courage if only she was patient enough. She had learned that to wait is an art for the mind. Waiting is not always a passive act. Active waiting of an alert mind is a mind learning to be alert, to be open to the opportunities that present themselves in the smallest of ways.
Mark is the man she waits for, though he does not know it yet. She feels that within him is the fulfillment of many dreams, though she is not able to enumerate them.
To write each day is akin to being alert to one’s thoughts, to being open to the script that our thoughts, words, and behaviors become. Each page is a day of our life, and the script we live as we write. The skin of our body is our power grid, our solar panel, our sensor, our love. For some, our tattoo parlor, our body armor.
As Maria sits at her computer to write, her fingers hovering above the keys, she knows that each channel in her mind is awaiting expression. Which is ready to know itself in this new moment, to add to all of the experience she has expressed in her being of life?
I remember the smell of yeast, of bread baking, the way the dough moved as I kneaded it, the way the salt smelled and the way the oven seemed ready to swallow each offering and give it back in golden loaves. This repetitious act, in and out of the oven, sliding in, pulling out, became a rhythm she loved. The steadiness of it had its own hypnotic motion, and the ease with which all moved together to complete the motion was a wonderful reminder to her of the connective tissue of all of life. Each part of that cycle has its place, its excited addition to the ritual of life that bread reminds us of.
She saw his growing beard, almost a symbol of quick growth even in drought. There is something to his scratching at the hair growing just under his chin – both an itch and a distraction that occupies thoughts that may seek to go elsewhere, into new virgin ground.
I am the person I am made to be, she thought to herself. Cake-maker, dog-walker, ephemera-lover. There is so much to hold in the skull that holds my brain of quivering mass, the dark hair like my mother’s that clothes the bones of my head.
Dance, dance, the lightfish say, as my dreams come back and forth, full of the memory of water and of sinking and rising, of bread rising and falling, of volcanoes building earth and organism and heat and cold into an inimitable creation of explosion, hot lava rocks spewing like a mixer throwing cocoa batter like paint onto the walls and beyond.
Mark is a sauntering personality, wary and unsure except full of ideas and all he has heard, read, and relates to. His sharp eyes show tears, happiness easily yet fleetingly. His thoughts search his brain database, aiming for relations, curious about people’s faces, full of his own talk.
Sebald said once that he did not consider himself a writer. More like the writing is a dedication, an obsession – building a model of the Eiffel Tower with matchsticks. Exploring the nuances of the fog of the past, which reveals pathways along the moors and the cobblestone streets as the writing happens.
Maria remembers Sebald’s words, the “highway hypnosis” of the kind he mentions and explores – our being hypnotized by what we call life, the pull of sadness that is our destructive nature as we wander in a deep forest of glimmering light.
Mark would talk about this for a while, no doubt – his remembering all kinds of details of his life, throwing out bits and pieces of his parents, his siblings, days at school, the chalkboard, the keyboard, the bright blue car he drove and the sun glinting from the sparkling hood which made him feel happy and powerful. They were pieces, though, not with a fully fulfilled sense of life that let him feel he was born to be powerful, not beaten down, not having to prove that he earned the sparkling blue happiness as he lived, as he loved.
This is Maria’s view of him, even as she laughs with him, loves his tugging at his beard, at his slight pot belly, at his eager curiosity which flags easily but remains.
Bring me one more order, she calls to her friend – I can make one more cake today! Her latest joy is this German Chocolate Surprise, which has all the expected ingredients and also organic oats, coconut, and some buttercream with raspberries to add new surprise. The textured flavors were delightful to a lover of such things.
We are all heart, she says to her satisfied customer who calls, gushing over the Valentine’s Day cake she ordered especially for her one great love. Even he loved it! Her customer exclaimed. He couldn’t stop staring at it. Said he never thought about cake-making as an art before, except wedding cakes. There’s a lot more to life than weddings, I said. Think of everyday as a merging, as lists of mergers happening and lining up to happen as moments tick by. Bidding happens. Celebrating, weeping, highs, lows, and the drips, drops, beams, rush and touch of life- just watch. Listen. Learn.
Sebald said he was hardly interested in the future. We can be captured by illusions of the past. The past can tell us everything we need to know, if we open our eyes and keep them open except when we are sleeping. Then our many eyes will keep recording and we will awaken to more upon morning.
Maria touches Mark when they pass in the hallway. He looks up, distracted. She smiles into his eyes, reaching for that past which makes him up, the illusions which shine, the glimmers of truth which are so playful and ready.
Have your cake and eat it, too. She smiles to herself, but all who know will see it shining from her diamond mind. Mark tugs at his beard, deep in thought.
Thursday, December 05, 2013
After Reading Autobiography of Red, Anne Carson
the lavaman and his other skin,
the gold burn like enveloping
the sun, what bursts he can
and maybe a little
asking for those who may be curious,
and bold, a
little afraid, to pay cents
to touch his golden skin, to know
a little of him, this passion for
substance and for naming
objects by name, for what
they are, at least for this moment
in hopes and time
and open-aired graciousness
from the faint memory of
what human can mean,
fragments float in, up,
gently, if wondered about
and the mind, with love,
In this, his case
the red, the wings, the
otherworldly things, with what
sun buried on the inside,
consciously claiming the inside
as lines are defined
and become known.
Tuesday, December 03, 2013
We create a “rule,” based on a belief – a forecast, prediction, hypothesis, which suits the reality we want to see, to create, to live. The “rules” usually follow the collective consciousness belief, within each individual and the greater group or culture or country or world. The rule becomes law as we make it happen. Those who don’t conform to or believe in the law challenge the law. This creates the tug-of-war of holding true to the law to keep “order” (known to some as status quo) and the challenging of the law to not have to conform to what we don’t believe in or think we don’t believe in because we don’t understand – it doesn’t make sense to us. The intricacies of laws that we create as we navigate the vagaries of our minds, the lessons that we have learned and need to learn, reveals the wormholes, the paths, the “mapping” of our minds as we live and create, create and live.
Sunday, October 20, 2013
Thanks to caring friends excited to be going on vacation to the beach, and who love “family time,” I was able to spend some wonderful days by the ocean in great company. Via the internet, I just listened to a “flash-mob” small orchestra in a city square, prompted by a little girl dropping a coin into a black-tied, bald bassist’s upturned hat. How we choose to “spend” our coins, our time, our energies can bring beautiful surprises full of music of all kinds. Sitting on the balcony at the hotel room, 16 floors up, looking at the endless water, feeling the wind from the sea that is like no other, I felt my whole body smiling.
Such a sense brings Magritte to my mind. The modern image, poetry for poetry’s sake, the juxtaposition of layers of life, the symbols that beget symbols and march forward into a world not yet seen yet imagined as each image comes to life. The ocean tides remind me. The laughter that comes with friends sharing life, the moments as they spring up, pass, fill, march forward, ease into a night and day, the sun shining, clouds hazing over water, the bright movement of bodies of all sizes happy to move over the sand bridge to the sea.
These song lyrics came to mind, too. Written by Richard and Robert Sherman for Walt Disney’s Carousel of Progress, commissioned in 1964 for the World’s Fair: “There’s a great big beautiful tomorrow, shining at the end of every day.”
Being at the ocean invites such delirious optimism, the constant smiling that happy faces and happy music brings. Hearing the rumbling of motorcycles on the street far below, mingling with the sound of waves just on the other side of the boardwalk, seeing the empty carousel rides with their bright colors- all gave me a renewed image of the celebrations of being alive in so many ways. Like the review introducing the Museum of Modern Art’s Fall survey show of Magritte’s Art, this trip for me was good, solid fun. What can be better than that?
Sunday, October 06, 2013
In the other room,
The sun room,
Even when dusk,
The small blue bird jumped onto the table.
A striped head ducked,
Then folded wings to raise a glass of water and bring it to its beak.
Bright blue wings with white stars.
Feathers starkly beautiful,
Like stained glass.
They waved to me as water
Dripped from the beak.
Life, it said. Drink!
Thursday, October 03, 2013
Roar, she says,
This doyenne young thing,
I’m here, there, everywhere.
I smile, first, before I step aside
And find the limelight made by me
And my shadow eons ago,
An easing into
Friday, September 20, 2013
I saw a leaf dance play
On the bark of a tree,
A trunk partly embracing shadow
As sunlight leaned over it and beyond
Where it disappeared into thin air.
Birds and squirrels scattered,
Then in and out of light
And grey, fur and feathers
Lit up and gone.
And now gentle